


Dal'she v les - bol'she drov

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-26
Updated: 2008-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirill smells strongly of alcohol, faintly of musk and cigarettes and cologne, but Nikolai doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dal'she v les - bol'she drov

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters belong to David Cronenberg and Steven Knight, I meant no harm. A big thank you goes out to my fabulous betas: mjules and voksen! You guys are amazing, really.
> 
> Written for wounded_melody

 

 

Nikolai never meant to take it this far.

But still he awakes, morning after morning, his hair sticky with dried sweat and his feet twisted in the sheets; his mouth is sour-sweet with the aftertaste of cigarettes and alcohol, and his body feels heavy, like wet sand. And beside him, always, is Kirill, with blue-purple hollows under his eyes and dirt caked under his fingernails. Sometimes instead of dirt there is blood, and sometimes the blood is Nikolai's, but in the end it doesn't matter.

Nikolai always wakes first, startled into awareness by the sound of birds outside the window, or the creak of the bed as Kirill rolls over and presses his face against the pillow, next to Nikolai's neck. Sometimes his breath is hot against Nikolai's ear, the noises he's making in his sleep muted and low. Nikolai might then relax, settling back against the mattress and dozing, until Kirill wakes and stumbles around the room in a daze, cursing alcohol with a gruff voice and tender throat.

Today, Nikolai wakes to something altogether different: a chill against his skin, and a sharp, tickling pressure against his abdomen, just below his heart. He doesn't move right away, but his breathing shallows and he can feel his heart rate quicken against his will; Nikolai enjoys having the advantage of surprise, and if his attacker presumes he is still sleeping, all the better.

There's a low creak, and Nikolai's body tilts and shifts as the mattress dips. There is a soft curse, in Russian, and the pinpoint pressure on Nikolai's chest melts into a warmth centered on his heart, tapering off in different directions. Relief washes over him, because the feeling is familiar.

Nikolai does not need to open his eyes to know that Kirill is touching him, but he does so anyway; the slightest twitch of an eyelid, and he looks through the haze of his lashes.

Kirill is leaning over Nikolai, one hand propped on the far side of his body, the other hand resting uncertainly on his chest. He is staring at something with interest, but his eyes are dark and unfocused, as if he is still shaking off the veil of sleep. His mouth is open, and his lips are dry and cracked.

It takes a moment for Nikolai to realize what has captured Kirill's attention: his tattoos.

On the center of Nikolai's chest, a few inches below the hollows of his collarbone, Jesus hangs on a botonnee cross in midnight blue, His Salvation and Atonement inked onto Nikolai's skin. The Madonna smiles on his left side, her expression tranquil, her hands fanning the flame that consumes her open heart. Sometimes, when Nikolai is truly drunk, he finds himself wondering if it's _his_ heart, being split in two and burned by justice. But he always forgets this thought, the following morning, when Kirill curls close and whispers in his ear.

There are words tattooed on Nikolai's body, as well: words of imagination and dreams, words of fantasy. Nikolai thinks he cannot fool himself, and believes it even more now that it's inked on his skin, the lines of script faded and worn.

Death waits on Nikolai's right side, his scythe sharp and ready, counting down the seconds. Like the Madonna, Death is smiling, with infinite patience.

It is this tattoo that Kirill is touching, his fingertips tracing the line of the scythe across Nikolai's abdomen. His nails are ragged and they leave trails of white across Nikolai's skin. Kirill brushes the pad of his thumb across the words written below the grim reaper: _I'm here and I'm waiting_.

Kirill shifts his hand and moves it back across Nikolai's chest, tracing thin spider-web scars, pale and raised flesh. There are eight-point stars on Nikolai's shoulders, tucked into the hollows under his collarbones. Kirill touches these, too; there is sadness in his eyes, and longing.

He presses his palm against the tendons of Nikolai's neck, fingers crossing his throat, and for a minute Nikolai remembers what it feels like to have pressure on his throat, the air squeezed from his lungs. But Kirill's touch is gentle, and his fingertips twitch rhythmically with the pulse of Nikolai's blood.

Kirill finally touches Nikolai's face — the palm of his hand resting uncertainly against the edge of his jaw, fingertips brushing the scar tissue that has blossomed on his cheek — and Nikolai chooses this moment to shift on the bed and open his eyes.

Kirill stares at him with wide eyes, looking surprised and slightly terrified, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Kolya, I—" He pulls back, but Nikolai catches his wrist, gripping firmly. "Sorry, I did not mean to wake—"

They have private moments between them, when one or both of them is drunk; sometimes they go through the motions of hugging, because Kirill is too drunk to stand and Nikolai is feeling lenient. Sometimes they kiss, their movements sloppy and quick, but they never kiss for too long. Mostly they just fuck, hands fisted in clothing and hair, mouths pressed to flesh, and sometimes they are patient enough to get their clothes off.

They always end up sleeping together, though, because Kirill is heavy and Nikolai is too exhausted to move him, and there's a certain comfort in waking with the warmth of another body pressed close. Nikolai allows himself this much.

But they are not tender with one another, because they are thieves. So Kirill looks surprised and caught, because he is being gentle and curious and he did not expect Nikolai to wake. The St. Petersburg cross on Nikolai's finger shifts and flexes as he changes his grip on Kirill's wrist, and the ink of the star on his knuckle stretches. 

"Kolya—"

Nikolai does not say a word; he simply pulls Kirill closer, tugging on his wrist like a leash. He rests his other hand on the back of Kirill's neck, the rising sun buried beneath the shag of Kirill's hair, _sever_ raising goosebumps on his flesh. Kirill smells strongly of alcohol, faintly of musk and cigarettes and cologne, but Nikolai doesn't mind. 

Nikolai never meant to take it this far.

 


End file.
